Onions

I've used up every tissue I can find scrunched up

On my bedroom floor; the ones under my bed,

From the fathoms of my coat pockets,

The ones from the depths of my handbag -

Smeared with lipstick.

Yet through my blocked and ever-running nose

I can still smell onion on my hands.

Backwards, it says, "Snow, I know",

Or, more pertinently, "It's 'no', I know".

Forwards,

My excuse for tears.